He is 2 minutes younger than me. In those few minutes, I think all the brain transferred to me and the brawn to him. If I had to describe myself objectively. The mirror tells me I have a clear olive complexion, a heart-shaped face and a straight severe bob cut. I'm short, cowering not towering in at just five feet. I may look like a child playing dress-up with their mom's clothes but I'm very mature for my age.
I have an affinity for perfection. Everything in my life needs to be in order. My routine for a week is planned every Sunday meticulously even down to how drunk I'll get on Saturday night when I escape my restaurant where I'm a head chef to meet my friends and blow off steam. People think I'm too much. But the routine and predictability make me happy.
To maintain my status quo, there is one thing I staunchly avoid - my brother. He is chaos in a person, propelled by spontaneous combustion. He is a six-feet tall Rugby player who has perhaps hit his head many times. I avoid him like the plague. Scratch that - there is a cure for plague.
That is why when I reached home at 9:45 pm on a Saturday, a scream left my soul as I saw him on my doorstep.
"Why?"
He drew a circle with his foot.
"Thing is, I had a match nearby and I wanted to see you."
"Why?' I repeated as I opened the door.
"Mom set you up with a buddy of mine. Thedateistomorrow." He said as he rushed upstairs out of my arms reach.
When I got upstairs, he had locked himself in my room.
"What the hell Raj?" Aaargh that's my room."
"Oh ah! lol, well I'm not opening the door."
"Who says lol out aloud? stop annoying me and open the doooooor"
"You'll beat me up."
"You're a giant Rugby player, how are you scared of me?"
I was clenching unclenching my fists as I spoke.
"I'd rather be tackled headfirst."
I leaned against the wall and slid down.
My skincare products, my bedside book, the custom-made mattress, my patchwork quilt with it's neat squares, everything was inside.
I heard loud snores reverberating throughout the house and resigned myself to sleeping in the guest room. Except I wouldn't call it sleep because I had to adjust the temperature, the blanket again and again.
When I finally drifted off, my brother must have left the house. As I made my way to the kitchen, I could see the house ravaged by that savage.
He had somehow managed to burn boiled eggs, then moved on to cooking my zoodles (zucchini noodles) with ketchup which had been abandoned for toast with what he though was jam but was marmite.
He had apparently given up and ordered pizza. For breakfast.
This was not how I was planning on spending my Sunday morning. I made a furious phone call to my mom which somehow rebounded on me and my single state.
That is why on Sunday afternoon at 4 pm I found myself in front of an Italian place wearing a skirt and a frown. I was supposed to go biking today and have a picnic at my usual spot.
I went inside and I could easily pick out my date. He was huskiest person there. As I approached him, he was folding his napkin in a perfect square and making sure his spoon and fork was parallel. He also kept glancing at his watch.
My mouth wavered into a slight smile. Maybe a break from routine wasn't so bad after all.